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Class 11:0, 



3 545 



Book HSsLr 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



"Vy'// W "^'> 




C o p y r i g li t 

1902 

by 

Charles S.Whittem 




THE LITTLE 

uuuTT RHD ^^^t:^ 

SCHOOL-HOUSE 

AND OTHER POEMS 

BY 

Charles S. Whittern 



<(^ 



Illustrated by 

THE L. S. & B. ILLUSTRATING CO. 

Cleveland 



Trfr-LIBRARY 01- 
CONGRESS, 

Two Cowee Received 

AUG. ? 1902 

COPVniOHT ENTRY 

CLASS ^XXa No 
^ S i t 
COPY B. 



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THE LITTLE RED SCHOOL-HOUSE. 



A DREAM OF BY-GONE DAYS. 



The little red school at the cross-roads, 
The cord-wood piled up in the yard, 

To warm our quaint school-room in winter, 
The play-ground all trampled and hard, — 



The boys tugging wood for the master, 
The roar of the old-fashioned stove 

As the door opened wide to receive it, 
And the figures portrayed up above, — 



On the ceihng, and far in the corner ; 

Strange images, awkward and tall, 
Dancing recklessly upward and downward, 

Like the hull of a ship in a squall. 



Slam bang goes that door with a clatter, 
The stove flushes red — now it's white, 

And the urchins who came there a-shiver 
Are thrilled with great warmth and delight. 



And their faces wear hues like the lobster. 
While their garments in places are burned 

As brown as those buttermilk biscuits 

That were baked after grandmother churned. 



Hear the bell ringing loud in the entry ! 

See the rush thro' the aisles for the seats ! 
In this stampede like herd of wild cattle 

"Best one is the feller that beats." 



Then follows the call of the classes, 

There are readers first, second and third, 

Coming fourth and the fifth in their order, 
And the readers who can't read a word. 



The reading is solemn and sing-song. 
Not all in sweet accents sublime ; 

Some running like horses at fair time. 
But more beats a rythmical chime. 



The arithmetic classes are charming, 

Mental training par-excellent, yes. 
For the quickness with which they solve problems 

Would just keep you guessing, I guess. 



•5- 



A man had two cups and a cover, 
The first cup six ounces it weighed, 

But the first with the cover upon it 

Twice the weight of the second was made. 



While the second when capped with the cover 
Weighed three times as much as the first. 

Tell us quickly the weight of the cover, 
And the second cup too, for we thirst. 



Such problems as this seemed as easy 
To the mental arithmetic class 

As the old elementary speller. 

Or the breaking of eight by ten glass 



To the average boy with a snow-ball 
As hard as the rocks of the brook ; 

As simple as Simple Proportion 
As found in Ray's Practical book. 



6- 



Now witness the long line of spellers 
Toe a crack in the white ashen floor, 

And hark to the voice of the master 
Pronouncing hard words by the score. 



Lymphatic, phlegmatic and phthisic, 
Mnemonics and asthma and gnat, 

And others more crooked than rams-horns, 
But what cared we youngsters for that? 



And to join in the spell-down at week-end 
Was fun by the bushel and more, 

For the contest tho' friendly, was earnest, 
And compelled us to know corps from core, 



Lest a youngster walk off with the pennant, 
Spelling all of the taller ones down. 

And our side get worsted completely, 
And lose the much coveted crown. 



-7- 



You have heard the geography classes 
Singing capitals off by the string, 

As swiftly and smoothly as glided 
The brook by the old sulphur spring. 



Oh, list to that far distant music ! 

How it rings in our ears yet to-day ! 
And those cities are fastened securely 

By the moorings in Memory's bay. 



The copies inscribed by the master 
On sheets of great fools-cap so long, 

Were precepts of force and large-handed 
Short sermons both timely and stronpf. 



"No excellence comes without labor," 
"Bright jewels are days of our youth," 

"Love of money the root of all evil," 
"Great virtue is unalloyed truth." 



Oh, the cranes, and the pot-hooks, and wabbles, 

The ovals and stems all awry ; 
The loops "awful" fat or real lanky, 

Were enough to twist out a cross eye. 



The smears of black ink on the paper, 
And more of the same on our hands, 

With daubs here and there on our faces 

Strolled around like the wild Indian bands. 



Remember old Pinneo's Grammar, 

And the parsing of eight parts of speech, 

With the various loz'c conjugations. 
Serving only small purpose to teach — 



Close analysis well, or good English 
Wholly free from syntactical flaws ; 

Tho' it gave us a relish for study. 
And limbered the joints of our jaws. 



-9- 



For our tongues were so thick and untutored, 
And our language as chock full of burrs 

As the mane of a colt in November; 
Not mournful like wind thro' the firs, 



'Twas charged with right royal good spirit, 
Over-full with the ozone of life; 

Those voices would reach the far pastures, 
While our whistling was clear as a fife. 



The halloo^ the co-boss and sheep call. 
And the shouting to boys far away. 

So resonant were, and so lasting 

That methinks I can hear them to-day. 



The big girls orthography studied 

From a book that was written by Wright, 

And palatal, lingual and dental 
Thev recited with jiasal delig"ht. 



rVJ almost forgotten the recess 

With the nooning between twelve and one, 
The first, with its high pressure frolic, 

With the second, large lunches and fun. 



Those baskets well-filled by, our mothers, — 
Luscious mince-pie and bread spread with jam, 

Large dough-nuts and excellent cookies, 
With a nice piece of chicken or ham. 



Great apples bulged out in our pockets. 
Where a jack-knife lay hid just below, 

Waiting summons to carve some in quarters 
For the fellows who had none, you know. 



Ah, Johnny is passing the water ! 

Hear it purl down the throats of the boys 
Like the creek gurgling on thro' the valley, 

Giving soothing and exquisite joys ! 



The girls, with more modest demeanor, 
Simply sip the cool liquid with care 

With lips sweet and smiling as sun-shine, 
Marking cheeks that are rosy and fair. 



There's mischief off there in the corner — 
Little boy with big jack-knife — a notch — 

Crooked pin — awful trouble — a floggings 
Good repute heretofore — wears a blotch! 



Such errors have taught greatest lessons 
To all who were anxious to heed, 

Enabling keen men of all nations 
To scatter rare Wisdom's good seed. 



We boys all played "knucks" or ring marbles, 
Or the ball-game we called ''Tzvo old cat," 

While the girls sang "Ring round the rosy," 
Mingling music with noise of the bat. 



The "Pull away" game was a good one, 
The battle of snow-balls just fine, 

The charge on the forts most exciting 
Tho' made bv a much broken line. 



The snow-balls flew round us like hail-stones, 
Shooting out very swiftly and straight, 

And woe to the lad slow at dodging 
If he chanced to get one on his pate. 



Oh list to the tremulous accents, 

As the girls "London bridge" sweetly sing, 
How it brings back the faces of playmates. 

And renews their blest voices' glad ring. 



The little red school has departed. 

There's a modern one now in its stead. 

Newest modes and devices within it 
Meant to build up a two-story head — 



Holding- learning on all sorts of subjects, 
Save the ones that are needed each day, 

Such as reading, arithmetic, spelling, 

Thoro' knowledge of which paves the way 



To the fields rife with best information, 
To the summits from which we survey 

All the world in our circle of vision, 

From the sun pluck its most brilliant ray 



Could our master once more ring the summons, 
Ring it loudly with softened refrain, 

We would wish it might call our companions 
To greet us as school-mates again. 



■ 14- 



THE DANDELIONS. 

The dandelions woke this morn, 

In all their golden glory ; 
They smile o'er all the meadows wide, 

Rehearsing soft the story 

Of verdure new, and blossoms bright, 
And warbler's songs unceasing; 

Of balmy airs and echoing groves 
And joyous days increasing. 

They show a welcome to the sun 
In all his morning splendor, 

And glow in gladness ev'ry one 
To weeping willows tender. 

Their radiant faces sweetly yield 
To children's chins bright yellow, 

To prove that butter will they like, 
And harvest apples mellow. 

To make them laugh in careless glee, 
And dance in childish gladness; 

To drink the sunshine, joy and song 
Without a thought of sadness. 



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SONG AND BLOSSOM. 

All the green has returned to the trees, 
Lovely lilacs perfume ev'ry breeze, 

While Bob Lincoln's song 

Comes floating along 
O'er the uplands, valleys and leas. 

The box-wood's abloom in the field, 
The beautiful tulips unsealed. 
The king-fisher's scream 
Resounds o'er the stream 
Like the rasp of a sword on a shield. 



-i6- 



For-get-me-nots dainty and sweet, 
Quaint carpets have made for our feet : 
See innocent cliildhood 
Rnn, seeking thro' wildwood, 
Spring's charmers in ev'ry retreat ! 

The apple-trees, white as the snow 
Are promising, row after row, 

Abundance of fruit, 

Of kinds that shall suit, 
In autumn when branches hang low. 

The mocking bird calls us at morn 
With piccolo, flute and shrill horn ; 

All swift in the race, 

The black-birds, apace. 
Swoop down on the new-planted corn. 

Mr. Jay wears his suit as of old, 
Just as saucily, dressy and bold, 
And he talks in loud voice 
To the schoolgirls and boys. 
Till they call him a regular scold. 



The meadow-lark sings in the clover, 
Weird melodies over and over ; 

Hear the quail out of sight 
Call the name of Bob White, 

And the thrush try to mimic the plover. 

The oriole's jacket of red. 

Thro' the green maple leaves over-head, 

Flashes ruddy and bright; 

While his song of delight, 
With the sun-rise comes to our bed. 

The brook chuckles on very sweetly 

In echo of songsters plumed neatly. 

While the wren and the linnet 

Interchange every minute 

Fine harmonies 'cording completely. 

As the ev'ning comes peacefully on, 
And the last rays of twilight are gone, 

All the birds go to sleep, 
And the frogs sing "knee-deep" 
Till the stars are all lost in the dawn. 



-1 8- 




THE BOBOLINK. 

Hark ! there's Mr. Bobolink 
With his rinkle, tankle, tink ; 

With his Hnk, go-lank, go-langle, 
He's trying to untangle 
That riotous triangle 
Ending pink ! pank ! plink ! 



Clear as tiny tinkling bells 

Is his music as it swells, 
And his merry, tipsy jingle, 
Sometimes double, sometimes single, 
Seems to sort o' intermingle 

With the clover blossom smells. 



And the clover needs must know it, 
For it lifts its head to show it 

To this tremolo musician 

With his voice in prime condition ; 

Clover sweet in fields elysian, 
O that scvthe should ever mow it ! 



Hear his quavers on the breeze 
As he tells the blooming trees 

That his name is Bob-o' Lincoln ! 
And he says "Now I'm a-thinking 
That these meadows, rising, sinking, 
Much resemble rolling seas." 



There he trembles on a weed 
While he dines upon its seed, 
Still his airy music tinkles 
O'er the meadows, till it sprinkles 
All their undulating wrinkles 
With the harmonv thev need. 



How it makes the girls and boys 
Bubbling o'er with youthful joys, 

Lightly trip to all its measures ! 

So delightful are its pleasures ! 

Rare as gift from golden treasures, 
Or as fairy maiden's voice ! 



Who would think this bird of song 
Could become a. bon vivant, 
Tidbit for the epicure ! 
Go on gastronomic tour 
Where the fields of rice allure, 
Ere our summer half is gone ? 



Like perverted human mind 
Is this chap to feasts inclined, 
This voluptuary gay. 
Hastening on to swift decay ; 
Woe betide the evil day 
When excess shall blight mankind ! 



But we love you, Bob-o'Link, 
With your tinkle, tankle, tink ; 
When you trill your line guitar, 
Matters little where you are. 
Fancy carries us afar 
Back long years to mem'ry's brink. 



We listen to that tinkling chime 

Come rippling soft like childhood's rhyme, 
And falling sweet on pensive ears 
Ot those who feel the weight of years, 
Like healing balm it soothes and cheers 

As melodies of olden time. 



SUNSET. 



'Tis ev'ning, and day's golden orb 
Falls fast beyond the western bound; 

His disk so grand and gorgeous red 

Seems hov'ring near the distant ground, 



And sending forth its mellow rays 
To color far-off somber clouds 

In tints that mock the rain-bow's hues; 
But, ah, his face he quickly shrouds 



Behind a fringe of dark green trees, 
Yet shoots reflections still afar 

Thro' heaven's resplendent canopy 
To welcome yonder ev'ning star. 



Long may this glorious twilight last. 
Subduing all in fading light, 

Thus making simplest things of day 
Look rich by contrast with the night. 



Now glides the day off into eve, 

Becalmed by sweet and mystic powers; 

Now blends old Sol's dissolving shades 
With twinkling starlight's charming hours. 



Pacific is the dying day, 

Like peaceful passing of the Just, 
When friends pronounce the requiem. 

Of earth to earth and dust to dust. 



CHATTANOOGA. 



In the Tennessee valley, near Lookout's great 

base, 
Lies old Chattanooga, renowned for the days 
When Grant and Joe Hooker caused the Rebels 

to run, " 

And Bragg cease his fighting and surrender his 

Sfun. 



Toward the east stands the Ridge of the Mission 

so old, 
Up which the brave blue-coats charged fiercely 

and bold 
'Gainst the boys dressed in gray, 'midst a great 

cannonade. 
Retiring the grays to the wood's kindly shade. 

Ten miles south and east, on Georgia's warm 

soil, 
There's famed Chickamauga, the scene of great 

moil 
'Twixt Rosecrans' men and Bragg's southern 

corps. 
Where Thomas stood firm and fought o'er and 

o'er 



-25- 



For the ground that he held, and commission he 

bore, 
And because of his stand 'gainst the terrible 

shock, 
He is called to this day Chickamauga's staunch 

rock : 
(Appropriate term for a man of his stock.) 



Just west from the Ridge stands the old ''Or- 
chard Knob," 

Where Grant fooled the Johnnies and put up the 
job 

That lost them the battle way up on the hill. 

Thus making them swallow an extreme bitter 
pill. 



Way back in November of sixty and three, 

Joe Hooker's brave men crossed the big Tennes- 
see, 

And swinging to west 'round Lookout's great 
head. 

Surprised the Confed'rates with billets of lead, 



-26- 



From positions above, under cover of fog, 

And made them skedaddle from tree, rock, and 

log", 
And hie them away to a safer retreat ; 
When famous Joe Hooker was victor complete. 



At the end of the Ridge, three miles to the north, 
Are the heights held by Sherman, from which he 

looked forth 
And saw Grant's brave army from valley below 
Move up the long hillside and scatter the foe. 



These points near Chattanooga, 

This town of Tennessee, 
Are fraught with deepest int'rest 



To men of all degree. 



By reason of the conflict 

Between the North and South, 
And the valor of the soldiers 

Who faced the cannon's mouth 



On hill, in wood, and valley, 
Who fought and bled and died 

T' maintain a solid Union, 

A Nation's strength and pride. 




This beautiful day 
In the middle of Mav 



/'fcfo Sets astir our poetical fancies ; 
•Wwlllit Each low singing breeze, 

Iwl W'ith faint humming bees, 

Ani" Far surpasses best music of dances. 






Hear the caroling birds 

Telling plainer than words 
Of the joy with which they're o'erflowing; 

Note the lowliest flowers, 

Bro't forth by warm showers, 
Mark the gladness that springtime is sowing. 

Hark ! the croaking old frog. 

With a voice like a dog, 
Re-utters his groaning profound; 

A sign of approval 

Of Winter's removal. 
E'en tho' a disconsolate sound. 

See sweet, ruddy faces 

Of children, in races 
For "dandelines" bright on the lawn ! 

Play on, little people. 

The clock in yon steeple 
Will soon say your childhood is gone. 



You'll soon become workers, 

We trust never shirkers. 
In the good field of industry great ; 

And, if you'll e'er measure 

Right, labor and pleasure 
For blessings you'll ne'er have to wait. 



-30- 



THE EDITOR'S LAMENT. 



Slender Scribo rushed into his sanctum, 
From a tramp he had taken for news, 

When telegrapher, printer and devil 
On his face saw depicted the "blues." 



^'Boys," yelled the scribe in shrill accents, 
"We've got to get news or go down. 

For The Bugle has come in a-bo6ming, 
And circulates all thru the town. 



*'I used to get melons and pum'kins 

From scores of great garden-sass raisers, 

Eggs, butter and milk and large cheeses 
From farmers for dubbing them 'grazers. 

*'Ripe tomatoes, nice onions and cabbage 
Came round to my table in fly-tiine, 

Big samples of choice bolted flour. 
And apples rolled in just in pie-time. 



"Fine turnips turned into my cellar 
Sweet cider and sauerkraut too, 

Sides of pork and flitches of bacon, 
IMaple sugar and 'apple-sass' new. 



''But those bountiful harvests are vanished, 
There's naught but their ghosts all a-stare, 

Foretelling my diet of future 
Will chiefly consist of thin air. 



"There'll be lack of good things in my larder, 
Without great out-payment of cash. 

And absence of proper ideas 

To cope with The Bugle's bright Jiash. 



"Now they tell me th' bank's gone insolvent, 
That S. E. P. Temper's in town ; 

That the taking of ads out in trading 
Has diminished mv former renown. 



''Receiving subscriber's good cord-wood, 
And veg'tables all in their prime, 

For a paper as weak as a dish-rag, 
They declare to be close to a crime. 



"Why, the man wdio edits The Bugle, 
'Tis said, slings a powerful hand ; 

That he can so manage a paper 
As to live on the fat of the land. 



'Then it's I, who shall have but the leavings, 

And mighty slim fodder is that. 
As thin as the shadow of spirits, 

As lean as a wandering cat." 



Ah, now there's a lull in the racket. 

For a season our Scribo stands dumb. 
For his devil is shrieking "Fll leave you, 

Ere that dav of destruction shall come. 



-33- 



So, demanding his stipend so princely, 
(It consisting of two bits a week), 

He hastens away to The Bugle, 
Resolving his fortune to seek. 



And he straightway proclaims loud the tidings 
Of our Scribo's despondency dire. 

Where they quickly found voice in The Bugle, 
And the resonant notes of the crier. 



Mr. Scribo, reduced to a shadow. 
Stands gazing aghast at the air. 

His eyes, sunken deep in their sockets, 
Show forth ihe grim skeleton's stare. 



His mouth opens wide, for he chanteth 
This motto that all ought to know : 

"Whoever would hear the best bugle, 
Must ever his own bugle blow." 



-34- 



REMINISCENCES. 



We used to play along the lanes 
In spring and summer days, 

And hearken to the joyous birds 
Send forth their blithesome lays 



From 'mongst the bushes and the trees 
That fringed the old rail fence, 

Where ev'ry chipmunk knew us well, 
For chipmunks had good sense 



When we were lads, and marksmen, too. 

Of most unerring aim, 
And hied themselves to burrows deep. 

Whene'er we youngsters came. 



-35- 



On ancient stumps we'd sometimes sit, 
To rest from childish pranks, 

Or swing on grapevines wild, so high, 
Far o'er the river's banks. 



Or plan some sly, unheard-of trick, 
And sigh for harvest fruit, 

Or long for melons, luscious, ripe. 
Or boots and brand new suit. 



At times we'd try to shun the school, 
Then work to save our hides 

From tanning that they much deserved 
But naught but ill betides 



The disobedient child or man. 
In ev'ry walk or sphere. 

For retribution cometh sure. 
Increasing year by year. 



-36- 



When came the April days of yore, 
We swam in waters chill, 

Or fished below the wooden dam. 
Where stood the old-time mill. 




We sailed thin stones across the pond, 
Or threw them high in air, 

Or cast them into muddy pools, 
The croaking frogs to scare. 

Betimes we stood beside the bridge 
And talked of coming days; 

In boastful, self-assuring tones. 
Our future selves we'd praise. 



-37- 



Again we played in meadows wide, 
Where sang the boboHnk, 

Until the sun's great disk sank low 
Behind the western brink. 



Yes, ofttimes, too, we stirred the bee 
From out its humble nest. 

Then madly beat our ears and hands 
To daze the little pest. 



O'er stubble sharp we'd gallop fast. 
To dodge the dreaded sting, 

And madly brush from tangled locks 
That horrid, buzzing thing, 



Whose honey schoolboys fight to get,. 

And tho' there's not a gfill 
In any nest they ever rob, 

They vow they've had their fill 



-38- 



From one small tuft of sweetened straw, 

When five the morsel share ; 
While satisfaction marks the look 

That all the urchins wear. 



Beneath the shade of walnut trees, 
We liked to stain our hands 

In shucking- nuts for winter use, 
And oft we went in bands 



In early morn to forests large. 
With baskets, pails, and bags. 

Attired in tattered coats and pants, 
Long saved for carpet-rags 



By prudent minds, and loving hands. 
Of Ma's and Grandma's too, 

Who always had their well-formed plans 
For carpets bright and new. 



-39- 



How swift we ran to reach the trees 
Rough-dressed in shaggy coats ! 

And counted ev^ery nut, at first, 
As judges count the votes! 



We whistled, laughed, and sang with glee 

At finding precious store, 
By some wise squirrel stored away 

In fallen beechtree's core. 



And when Old Winter's days would come, 
We'd coast down whitened hill. 

Or skate o'er thin and glary ice, 
Not minding frost and chill. 



With yearnings, now, we sometimes look 

Back o'er our zigzag ways, 
To see delights much magnified 

In glow of bygone davs. 



-40- 



'Tis time which lends enchantment to 
The view we take of youth, 

Bright Pleasure's power over Woe 
That hides some grains of truth 



From our obtuse, imperfect minds, 

A providential way 
To smooth the rugged paths of life. 

And keep dull cares at bay. 



HOOSIERDOM. 

Oh, for a trip to Hoosierdom 

Where Erie's breezes never come ! 

There's where la grippe provokes no sneeze^ 
Because no moisture's in the breeze. 

And summer's sun sails calmly by 
Thru azure skies so gorgeously ; 

Where croaking frogs sit on the logs, 
All piping loud, "Go round the bogs !" 



Where mooing cows walk up the lanes 
To shed their milk for maids and swains. 

Where Hoosier girls make palate ease, 
And name it butter, but it's grease. 

W^here stalwart lads spark buxom girls. 
Adoring them, their bangs and curls ; 

They pop the question much too soon, 
Yet keep the good old folks in tune. 



-42- 



Where "skeeters" large as peacocks live, 
And use their bills to make a sieve 

Of human hides ; tho' thick and tough, 
They'll jab you till you cry ''Enough." 

Where clergymen control each town, 
And keep old Satan trotting down 

The hillside to his fearful pit ; 

But there he'll skulk and scheme and sit 

Till all the saints have long retired. 
When he, by all that' base inspired, 

Arises in his dreadful might. 

And stalks about thru all the night 

To seek the ones he may devour. 
By using quick his subtle power ; 

He takes young men from flowing bowl. 
Swift drags them to the yawning hole, 

Hard throws them in that awful pool. 

Then solemn chants ''Thou fool ! thou fool ! 

Thy coming here to dwell with me 
Well proves thy driveling idiocy. 



"Thoii'rt held in chains of iron now, 

Must ever to my dictates bow. 
Obey me here and be my slaves ; 

Your comrades all are rosiues and knaves. 



'fe' 



*'Be mine to-night, yes mine for aye, 
For soon shall come the Judgment Day, 

When down you'll go to poke the fire. 
Old hardened sinners to inspire. 



*'To make them dance in agony 
That I may laugh in taunting glee, 

And clap my hands in pure delight 

To watch them gnash their teeth and fight." 



Where good preachers catch the ladies. 
And stop the men en route to Hades ; 

Where Jim Riley lives, still single, 
Writing charming Hoosier jingle. 



Where John Clark Ridpath made his start, 
And genial Wallace built the cart 

In which Ben Hur should win the race. 
Such noble names shall naught efface. 



Wish the Lord would send some water 
From the clouds; He rea'ly ''oughter." 

A "Right smart chance" they're needing now 
To fill each bin and harvest mow. 



Way down in Injiana land, 

Where towering cornstalks stately stand. 
What a garden full of Eden 

There must be for folk to weed in ! 



Far out in happy Hoosierdom, 
The home of Gen'ral Harrison ! 

Delightful land of milk and honey, 

Where nothing's lacking only money ! 



REJUVENATION. 

Beneath a wild cherry tree here, 
On a rock I am sitting alone, 

And viewing the creek which in youth 
My most ardent love often won. 




-46- 



There's the great antique barn at the left, 
The old hick'ry tree on my right, 

The long pasture lot just before — 
All around me sing birds in delight. 



Ev'ry scene hereabout seems to strive 
To crowd sweet remembrance of youth 

Thru a mind filled with duties and cares ; 
Refreshment would bring it, forsooth. 



There's the blackbird's sharp twang in the oak, 
The mockingbird's lay in the elms, 

Happy robin's pure warbles of love 
Conveying to Ecstasy's realms, 



While the soft, liquid gurgle, anon. 
That comes from the old stony brook. 

And the twitter of swallows of eld 
Re-open my childhood's bright book. 



-47- 



The murmuring winds in the trees 
The piping of frogs in the pool, 

The chiming of bkiebirds and jays, 
The laughing of children from school, 



The music of sheepbells afar, 
The lowing of kine in the grove, 

The swelling of bob-lincoln's notes, 
The low plaintive call of the dove, 



All send me to childhood again. 
To drink of those exquisite joys. 

Renew the lost sunshine of youth. 
And sum up our pleasures as boys. 



-48- 



A DAY IN JUNE. 

All nature seemed to blend in harmony to-day, 
Bewitching charms to drive all care away. 
The sun poured forth his radiant rays of gold, 
Sweet robin all her tenderest stories told 
In charming notes of love to offspring dear, 
And bade them fill their hearts with gladsome 
cheer. 






^ 



-49- 



A VISION OF YOUTH. 

One night in the month of November, 
In the year eighteen ninety and five, 

While observing a fast dying ember. 
That had shortly before been alive. 

With its bright, glowing top, and its darkening 
side. 

And its flickering light on the wall ; 
With its blushing anon like th' cheeks of a bride. 

And its shadows, grotesque, grim and tall, 

I saw, in clear vision of juvenile days, 

A boy with his copper-toed boots, 
With resplendent red tops, and thickest of soles, 

To wear with his made-over suits. 



They were long in the legs and tight in the feet, 
And made of the strongest of stuff ; 

And having been measured in snow drift and 
brook. 
You may know they pulled on hard enough. 



I beheld the boy kicking the jamb of th' door, 

With a violence born of no care ; 
His face all ablaze, his temper high wrought, 

And his passion displayed in his hair, 



Disordered and tangled and matted and meshed, 

Piled up like a haystack at war; 
His fingers just bursting with corpuscles red, 

But he knew what his striving was for. 



Now he struggles and turns, twists, grunts and 
he pulls. 
And redoubles his kicks on the jamb; 
Then looks up and smiles, and shouts, ''Now it's 
on ! 
Just see what a stout boy I am !" 



He's had his first battle and vanquished the foe. 

'Twas a lesson of value to him. 
Imparting a spirit determined and strong, 

And fiUinsr his soul to the brim 



With a consciousness great, of a trouble subdued, 

Of a victory won by his might ; 
A powerful feeling of pride in his breast, 

For he knew that his effort was right, 



And that he had throttled the giant ''Despair," 
And made him succumb to his power; 

Had beaten him squarely in fair, open field, 
And the hero become of the hour. 



That boy has grown tall, and his boots become 
large, 

And his hair is besprinkled with gray ; 
The luster is leaving the eyes of his youth — 

Yet the space, it seems but a day 



Since he played thro' th' meadows, the pastures 
and wood, 

In search of the flowers of spring : 
The dainty anemones, violets blue, 

And heard the sweet songsters all sing 



-52- 



The pure, simple ripples, with thrills of delight, 

Those warbles of innocent love ; 
Their carols of ev'ning, and matins of morn, 

In all of the trees of the grove. 



The creek seemed a river, its fish, almost whales. 

In the far-away days of the youth. 
The hills were like mountains, the vales, as great 
plains ; 

All, all, such a magnified truth ! 



The grass was a carpet, so cool, green and soft ; 

All the flowers, sweet blossoms of light ; 
Great trees, silent sentinels, reaching the clouds, 

And th' stars, peeping angels of night. 



Ah, could we but taste of those joys, for a day, 
And drink from those fountains of youth ; 

Renew adolescence, with absence of care, 
And bask in that sunshine of truth ! 



-53- 



But that innocent love of th' beauties of God, 
And th' works of His wonderful hand, 

Was ephemeral only, bright but a day, 
Unstable as columns of sand. 



Yet, oft we live over those sweetest of hours, 
And imbibe inspiration therefrom. 

Again to awaken our lessening powers. 
Or soothe us to seasons of calm. 



-54- 



DEAR MOTHER NATURE. 

Our dear mother Nature bursts forth into life, 
With new song and blossom the atmosphere's rife. 
Each breeze wafts a fragrance known only to 

Spring, 
And melodies vernal the harbingers sing. 

Behold the green carpet spread over the hills, 
And tiny forget-me-nots bloom by the rills : 
In rich em'rald colors the woodlands are dressed, 
While blossoms of boxwood float down on the 
breast 

Of th' river discolored by copious showers. 

Its banks all bespangled by Spring's sweetest 

flowers. 
The woods are resounding with sweet matin lays, 
Produced by our warblers ere th' first morning 

rays 

Of th' great sun resplendent, creep forth through 

the trees 
To warm and illumine, while ev'ry soft breeze 
Is burdened with perfume from orchard and field. 
Is laden with harmony — again do we yield 



-55- 



To th' voices of Nature; — her music sublime, 
That falls in sweet cadence, and regular time. 
Hear th' soft, rippling waters o'er th' low pebbly 

bed 
Of the creek in the valley. Hark ! over your head 



The bobolink's singing his quaintest refrain; 

From th' elm over yonder comes th' mocking- 
bird's strain. 

Midst th' lowing of cattle and cooing of doves; 

The tinkling of sheep-bells in pastures and 
groves, 



The warbling of robins, .and cawing of rooks ; 
The chirrup of chipmunks in crannies and nooks^ 
Transported are we to the May days of youth, 
To bask in the sunshine of unalloyed truth; 



To dwell for the while independent of care. 
And bathe in the fragrance the mild zephyrs bear,. 
And imbibe the sweet spirit of innocence true, 
Unrestrained adolescence thus to renew. 



-56- 



GOOD MORNING, MR. ROBIN. 

Good morning, Mr. Robin ! 

You're with us once again, — 
Come, tell us of your travels, 

Where has your lordship been ? 

To the Alabama forests. 

Or Georgia's kindly shades? 

Or to the Land of Flowers 
Among the everglades? 

Did you trill to dusky maidens 

In Cuba's land afar, 
Where the Spaniards and the Yankees 

Engaged in awful war? 

Did you nest within the tropics 

In palm and orange grove, 
And warble there so sweetly 

Those songs of joy and love? 



-57- 



But we're glad you're back, dear fellow, 
With your cheer and joyful song, 

And we trust your present sojourn 
May be very, very long. 



You recall the glorious spring-time, 
And our childhood's happy days,- 

Surcharge our hearts with gladness. 
And our souls with fulsome praise. 



-58- 



A MAY-DAY SONG. 

We see, beside the gurgling brook, 
Within the hedge-row dense. 

The dainty httle vi'lets bhie. 
And there along the fence 

Anemones are blossoming, 

And dandelions, too; 
While all the soft and balmy air 

Is filled with fragrance new. 

The bobolincoln twangs his note 

Amidst the clover-bloom ; 
The sun-beams run their shim'rings thro' 

The south-wind's gauzy loom. 



The lark her trembling melody 
Pours gently down the breeze; 

The linnet's wondrous lay of love 
Comes wafted from the trees. 



-59- 



And all the woods are dressed in green. 

And gaudy blossoms sweet 
Bedeck the orchards and the fields 

Where tread the little feet — 



Of children dear in search of flow'rs 
For garlands grand and gay 

With which to crown the sweetest girl 
Queen of the month of May. 



-60- 



INDIAN WEED AND FREE SILVER. 



In the land of bad dreams and big rabbits, 

Where the rank Indian weed and bad habits 

Are planted and nourished, 

And flaunted and flourished. 

Until it would seem 

In the mist of a dream 

The vilest tobacco is sweeter than cream, 



There lives a real moss-back called Joe, 

And a pure silver Demmy, named Slow, 

Whose first name is Hank, 

A white metal crank, 

Who argues, declaring it's so, 

That silver's the stuff for our money — 

More precious than nice milk and honey- 

For purchase of dresses 

For wives with red tresses — 

Long pants for our dear little sonny. 



-6i- 



That Bryan's a dandy, By Jolly! 

For talking so much, like poor Polly, 

Declaring white metal 

Forever will settle 

The question of wages, what folly 

For men with long legs to thus banter ! 

'Twere healthier for them to canter 

The length of their "furries," 

Sweat out all their worries. 

Than follow in wake of a ranter. 



But so go the world and its people. 

Even ghouls, dwelling up in the steeple, 

Entertain their queer notions, 

And mental commotions, 

Though logic'ly awfully feeble. 

But Hank Slow would make a good preacher. 

Philosopher, lawyer, or teacher; 

Or perchance a fine farmer, 

A wondrous snake-charmer — 

Subduer of anv wild creature. 



-62- 



And Joe, his right bower, 

If gifted with power. 

Could argue "gold standard" with Hank, 

And show how a "dudeen" 

Which was never too clean, 

Would help to store money in bank. 

That using tobacco 

Would yield him a stack o' 

The finest of greenbacks on earth, 

Thus making old smokers 

And practical jokers 

To laugh till near bursting with mirth. 



-63- 



QUERIES. 

Do zve live and act aright f 

Is a question for us all, 
Do we never take delight 

In seeing others fall? 

Can we see ourselves as others do, 
And discern our imperfections ? 

Shall we prove ourselves forever true, 
And train all right affections ? 

Do we meet all frowns with winsome smiles, 

And hold our many passions ? 
Do we understand how sin defiles. 

Eschew all foolish fashions? 



Do we lead our minds in proper ways. 

And reason most discreetly? 
Do we think how best to spend our days — 

Each duty do completely ? 



-64- 



Are we aiding others day by day, 
By thought and kind affection? 

Do we strive in each and ev'ry way 
To approximate perfection? 

Do we train the will to guide the mind 
In paths with knowledge rife? 

Do we use our powers to aid mankind 
To bear the ills of life? 

Does our example every hour 

Teach others how to live? 
Do we recognize the Source of power, 

And thanks ungrudging give? 

Do we turn our eyes to things above? 

Promote no selfish end? 
Do we serve our God, and ever love 

Each other to befriend? 

Alas ! we learn not how to live 

Till life is too far spent. 
Ah, slowly we the good receive. 

More slowly we repent ! 



-65- 



THE SEASON'S ROUND. 

October, month of fruits is gone; 
November's Indian summer come; 
Winter's chill is hast'ning fast 
With its freezing polar blast; 
Then will come the spring again ; 
Then that glorious season, when 
All the songsters sweetly sing 
Till anew the woodlands ring, 
And the blossoms ope once more 
As in all the springs before; 
Once again the summer's heat, 
Turned upon the golden wheat, 
Shall fill the bins to overflow, 
And paint the fruit its richest glow. 
Then return rare autumn's glory; 
Year by year the same sweet story. 



RETROSPECTION. 

When blithesome summer days were here 
The fields wore richest green, 

But all is now both brown and sear, 
No verdure may be seen. 

Those times in June were happy ones, 

The zephyrs soft arid calm; 
Flowers seemed saying "The brooklet hums 

Her tuneful vernal psalm." 

How sweetly hymned our songsters then 

In forest, grove, and bower, 
Recalling youth's delights again. 

Each charm and precious hour. 

The squirrels frisked about so free 

While chat'ring in the trees, 
They whispered in their utter glee, 

"We'll laugh, for no one sees." 

The streams went chuckling smoothly by 
Great oaks with branches spread. 

Where flashed the oriole so high. 
While Fancy's day dreams fled. 



-67- 



Droll droning of the bees was heard, 
Faint tinkling of the bells, 

Conveyed by browsing sheep toward 
The wooded vales and dells. 




■^^ 



The jangling ding-dong in the lanes 

Betokened setting sun ; 
The "co-boss" sung by lusty swains 

Proclaimed day's labor done. 



The cadence made by falling milk 

In buckets bright and new, 
Drawn forth by maids in homespun silk, 

From Brin and Spangled Sue, 



Was music, sweeter far than aught 
E'er heard on harp or lyre. 

On reed, or string, by genius wrought. 
Like some angelic choir 



We hear it ring thru long-drawn time. 
Far back from schoolboy days ; 

According with entrancing chime 
It floats down charmed wavs. 



■69- 



TO A RIVER. 



Roaring waters rushing forward, 
Striving e'er to reach their level, 

Seething, foaming, tumbling onward, 
Mad, betimes, like some great evil. 



Strike great bowlders while descending, 
And in twain are rent how forceful. 

But the mighty stream, undaunted. 
Hastens on to realms more peaceful. 



Element, so highly colored 
By the recent copious rains. 

Thou dost cleanse thyself by action, 
In thv motion lose all stains. 



Hasten on, O restless waters, 
To a solemn, sweet repose, 

To that pure and pulsing ocean. 
Of whose wonders no one knows. 



There, Old Sol, in freaks of fervor, 
Will thy bosom oftimes warm, 

Lift thee high on airy vapors, 
And resolve thee to a storm. 



Thus it is, thou changest ever. 
Like the course of human life. 

Sometimes sweetly pure and limpid, 
And again beset by strife. 



Often carried onward, upward. 

To a pure, ethereal air, — 
Like the earnest thoughts of Christians, 

Wafted on the wings of prayer. 



Ofttimes driven o'er lone islands. 
In the wide-extending seas, 

Or spread, in downy flakes of wdiiteness 
O'er the uplands and the leas. 



Thus it is that rightful effort, 
Tending always toward a goal, 

Leads the mind forever upward. 
Brings refreshment to the soul. 



Sends sweet drops of love and kindness 
To the hearts o'erfilled with woe, 

Till thru tears is read the promise. 
Bright portrayed in yonder bow. 



-72- 




AUTUMN LEAVES. 



Oh, the glorious autumn leaves ! 
How they rustle on the trees, 
And sail with ev'ry breeze 

Softly down ! 
See their gorgeous, gaudy hues, 
Decked with bright pellucid dews, 
Any color one may choose 

All around ! 



Who could make a scene so grand ? 
Only He with magic hand. 
Touching all with mystic wand. 
Can color things so far beyond 
The power of human hands to paint. 
Most glorious shades and etchings quaint. 



■73- 



OCTOBER. 

October frosts have dyed the leaves 
Of all the woodlands grand ; 

Have driven away our summer birds, 
And hushed each cricket band. 



Have oped the chestnut burrs so high, 
On yonder spreading trees. 

Just hear the shack come rattling down 
On ev'rv fitful breeze ! 



The hick'ry nuts from shagbarks tall 
Are cast 'mongst rustling leaves, 

For searching youth to gather up 
To crack in winter eves ; 

To eat with apples, popcorn too, 
When candy-pulling's prime, 

And all the neighbors gather in 
To have a glorious time. 



Behold old Sol move daily south 
Toward Capricorniis' line ! 

How tenderly thru smoky air 
His golden glim'rings shine! 



How glisten they upon the brook 
Which sings o'er pebbly bed! 

How flit among the gaudy leaves, 
Bright yellow, green, and red ! 




They cast their splendor on the corn 

In golden heaps arrayed, 
And lend rich luster to the fields, 

Brig^ht 2Teen by showers made. 



They've painted many an autumn flower 

In iridescent hues, 
Like those of clouds at setting sun, 

Where poets catch the muse. 



The lark sings dolefully anon. 
The jay pipes forth his strains 

Discordant on the passing breeze, 
Funereal refrains. 



The bob 'link of the clover fields 
Has donned the ricebird's coat, 

For since he's dwelt in southern swamps 
He's lost his tinkling note. 



By giving way to morbid tastes. 

And fanciful desires. 
Thus adding fuel to the flames 

Of fierce stomachic fires. 



-76- 



The robins and the bluebirds too, 
Sweet harbingers of Spring, 

Have sung their mournful, farewell lays, 
And now have taken wing 



To seek a more ethereal clime 
Wherein to spend the days 

When frosty Jack stalks o'er our zone, 
When Sol throws slanting rays 



Upon the landscape far and wide. 

In northern latitudes. 
Congealed lakes and speechless streams. 

And snow-embowered woods. 



Red squirrels chuckle to themselves 
While hoarding up their stores. 

They're working swift to end the task 
Ere Winter shuts the doors 



-77- 



Of golden Fall, and hides the key 
Till coming Spring again ; 

For now it spreads its snowy fleece 
O'er hillside, glade and glen. 



Maturing, decomposing month, 

Thy glories are untold, 
Thy richness and thy somberness, 

Thy grandeur and thy gold, 



Are all commingled in those days 
When passing mellow shades 

So soft proclaim the dying year, 
When verdure slowlv fades ; 



Descending leaves, with ev'ry gust, 
Go eddying to the earth. 

To help enrich the native soil 
That gives each bud its birth, 



-78- 



And paints in gorgeous rainbow tints, 
Spring's beauteous floral band, 

Forgetting not bright pencilings 
On autumn beauties grand. 



Sweet month of landscape undefined, 
Thou counterpart of June, 

Too brief thy soft, dissolving light. 
Too short thy harvest moon. 



October's dissolution tells 
How Time's unerring aim 

Restores to Earth all forms of life, 
That she mav then reclaim. 



And hold for Spring the vital sparks 
Of life and wondrous powers, 

That vernal sunshine wakes again 
With coming April showers. 



-79- 



Behold the resurrection then 

Of leaves and flowers of Spring! 

And hearken to the melodies 
Returning warblers sing. 








-So- 



INDIAN SUMMER. 

The meadow larks are singing 
Their plaintive autumn lays ; 

From the sumach bushes yonder 
iSounds the scolding of the jays. 



The crows are cawing loudly 

As they seek their southern home; 

The blue-birds chime in softened notes 
November now has come. 



The glorious Indian Summer days 
O'er spread the landscape wide 

With cooling, hazy atmosphere, 
'Thro' which old Sol with pride — 

Looks down on fields reposeful now, 

October's harvest done, 
And bids them sleep till vernal days, 

And coming summer's sun. 



AUTUMN DAYS. 



All the birds are winging southward 
As the summer fades away, 

And the forest-trees turn scarlet 
With each coming autumn day. 



What a grand and glorious picture 
All the woods present each morn ! 

How the tender shim'ring sunshine 
Gleams o'er heaps of golden corn ! 



All the apples blush their reddest, 
All the melons taste ''divine," 

And the grapes in purple clusters 
Are brimful of choicest wine. 



Oh, how sweet the waning beauties 
Of a summer full of song, 

And how rare the soothing radiance 
Of each day that speeds along! 

-82- 



WINTER'S COMING. 

Once more we see the winter snow 
O'er all the landscape spread ; 

Again October's gaudy leaves 
Lie withered, brown, and dead. 

The chilling, cheerless, northern wind 
Chants Autumn's fun'ral strains ; 

Sweet flowers all are gone to sleep, 
Nor waken till the rains 

Of joyous Spring rejuvenate, 
To blend in colors bright. 

To blossom in the verdant fields. 
Like stars in heaven's height. 

To note return of balmy airs 
With songsters' tuneful lays ; 

Of wak'ning life in all the land. 
And hast'ning summer days. 



-83- 



FREAKS OF THE FROST. 

See the bright shining gems up there on the roof, 
Emblazoned by Sol's brilliant rays; 

Artistic'ly woven with white warp and woof — 
All sparkling on clear wintry days. 

Look next on the pane of the window, queerly 
Fantastic the pictures there drawn 

By the hand of old Jack in his scampVing moods. 
His journeys ere break of the dawn. 

He wheels his fine pencil in circles sometimes. 

In tracings reciprocal too; 
In parallel curves, and in ovals anon — 

Frail etchings inscribed in the dew. 

He sketches quaint flowers, ne'er using the dyes 
That artists employ in their works; 

Unique amphitheaters, grasses and leaves. 
And symbols with numerous quirks. 



-84- 



His long hoary locks from the branchlets depend 

In gossamer garlands profuse; 
White, delicate whiskers extend from each limb, 

And bring to us miniature views — 



Of icebergs in regions where rays never come 
Direct from the sun's. burning face, 

To melt down the crystals that form the grand 
spires — 
Stalagmites in polaric space. 

His power's expressed in the thick coat of ice, 
That's spread hard and smooth o'er the lake, 

While multiform flakes floating silently down, 
A vast fleecy coverlet make — 



For Terra's broad breast, and the sear, yellow 
leaves, — 

White mantles for bushes and trees ; 
Aye, pure downy shrouds for autumnal flowers 

Which bloomed in the September breeze. 



-85- 



His handiwork's shown in the icicles long 

That pendulous cling to the eaves; 
The exquisite blush that paints the youth's cheek, 



And tintings of October leaves. 



How his glories all gleam in crystalline beads, 

And pencils with prismatic hues, 
In spectra displayed from the crests of the trees 

Like some of Niagara's views. 



Ah ! the glistening light through silvery glass 
How splendid ! How gorgeous ! How grand 1 

A garden of Eden with pendants beset, 
All made by mysterious hand. 



Sights truly wonderful, a Paradise found, 

Radiance beyond all compare; 
Reflections so dazzling in morn's brilliant light,. 

O ! was there e'er forest so rare ? 



MOONLIGHT ON THE SNOW. 

How bright and how white 
On this Hght wintry night 

Kind Luna shines out in the sky ! 
Saihng placidly thru 
The soft liquid blue, 

Like a halo from heaven on high. 

See, she casts her bright pearls 
On the snow as it whirls 

Along with the music of bells, 
While the weird polar breeze 
Sings its love to the trees. 

And all in strange euphony swells. 

And the sleigh glides along 
With a glad, noisy throng, 

All shouting in highest of glee, 
And their songs blending well 
With the wind and each bell. 
Produce a most quaint harmony. 



CHRISTMASTIDE. 



"Peace on earth, good will to men." 
Ring loud the Christmas bells again, 

Proclaiming love in rhythmic chime : 
More sweetlv told in olden time — 



By Him who walked upon the sea; 

The glorious Man of Galilee, 
Whom wise men went to seek afar 

Beneath the light of Bethlehem's star. 



Whose tender, sympathetic words 
Are lovelier still than song of birds, 

Or music of the masters old, 

Tho' trembling low on harps of gold. 

All hail the Merry Christmas then ; 

With "Peace on earth, good will to men,' 
And praise to Him who gave His Son 

Sweet peace to bring to ev'ryone ! 



-88- 



COUNTRY GAWKS AND CITY "FEL- 
LERS." 

Them city fellers think they're smart, 

To call us ''country gawks ;" 
They know a "hayseed" by his gait, 

And giggle when he talks. 

They snort to hear his funny words, 

And watch his gestures queer, 
And wonder if his sledge-like fists 

Have ever "felled a steer." 

They call him Reuben, Jake or John, 

And holler "Punkins green?" 
Or yell, "Old boy, who cut yer hair ?" 

'Twant done with no machine. 

Why, 'tother day, when peddlin' hay. 

My wagon give a lurch. 
When some pert city lad screamed out: 

"Hey, dad, come off your perch ! 



-89- 



"Say, Uncle John, now husk your punks. 

And tote your squashes in. 
Jest sell your milk with cream all on, 

For water's mighty thin." 



One day my off ox balked in town, 

And wouldn't move a peg; 
When some great gawky says, says he, 

''Say, Rube, jest pull his leg!" 



Another says : ''Drive home your cozvs, 
Fer milkin' time has come." 

Says I : "Dry up, you 'tarnal scamps, 
Er you'll hear suthin' hum.'' 



Of course we country jakes are green, 
And use some awkward words. 

But never call a sfccr a cozv, 
Or hawks the singin' birds. 



-90- 



Or oak, or elm, a maple tree, 

Or onion tops, tall beans. 
We know good melons when they're ripe, 

And weeds that's good for greens. 



We never call a ivhcel a iveal, 
Nor sing out wat for ivhat. 

Nor think a yearlin' calf's a goat. 
Or rye's a clover lot. 



The farmers don't say iven for zvlien, 
Nor zvight instead of zvhite. 

They don't use zuear in place of zvhere, 
Sav, zvhere do suckers bite? 



They're pretty kind, these rural men. 
Jest take 'em thru and thru ; 

And, if you always treat 'em right. 
You'll find 'em good and true. 



-91- 



A FEW LINES TO THE EDITOR OF THE 
VILLAGE PAPER. 

Mr. Eddyter: 

When ground hog day come to this place about 
a month ago, I went out in the mornin' to kind o' 
tinker round the farm, and sort o' fix up the rail 
fences to keep 'em from topplin' over in places, 
and look after the young lambs that had got 
strayed from their mothers, all the while hopin' 
a way down in my heart that Mr. Sun would have 
sense enough to stay behind the clouds durin' the 
whole day, when all at once without a bit of 
warnin' out popped his big round red face, and 
shone brighter than a dollar all the rest of the 
day. 

Well, for a while I was as mad as a March hare 
tc think of six weeks more winter, but after a bit 
I concluded I couldn't help matters any by grum- 
bling about the sun or the weather or ground 
hogs or other hogs, four-footed or otherwise, nor 
could I keep the good old sun from shinin' when- 
ever he takes a notion on the just and on the un- 



-92- 



jnst whether its ground hog day or any other day, 
so I says to myself, "Now, Jabe, they hain't no 
sense in your tryin' to regulate Providence nor 
anything that Providence regulates, neither the 
sun nor the weather nor ground hogs, nor the 
length of the shadders made by the latter, so 
you'd better 'tend right to your bizness, and take 
the days jest as they come and call 'em all good." 

And I got to thinkin' what a fool I had been a 
findin' fault with Nature and a kind o' meditatin' 
about the spring and summer with their birds and 
bees, and bugs and butterflies, and jest then the 
rhymes come crowdin' into my head like a lot of 
hungry black birds into a newly planted corn- 
field, and my old head got so blamed full o' them 
verses that I had to find some place to put 'em, 
for they was liable to bust out without no warnin', 
so I wrote 'em down, and thot I'd send 'em to you 
to read over. If they're good enough, you might 
print 'em in your paper and send me an extry 
copy, for I'm one of your reg'lar readers. 

The verses foller. 

Yours truly, 

JABE SMITH. 



GROUND HOG DAY AND OTHER DAYS. 



That pesky, stupid ground-hog 

Has been out and seen his shadder 

When the ole big sun was shinin' — 
Be blamed if I ain't madder 



Than an ole wet hen a-settin'; 

For I've had my fill o' winter, 
Enough and some to spare, 

And I want to hear the robins 
And sniff the summer air. 



Jest think of six weeks' blizzard. 
And slush and snow and sleet, 

A freezin' and a thawin' 

And a heavin' of the wheat. 



-94- 



W'y, it fairly makes me shiver, 
When I think how long 'twill be 

Fore the comin' of the ^spring time, 
When I holler, haw and gee — 



To my team of good old liosses, 
When I'm turnin' up the earth, 

And all the birds are singin' 

Sweet sonofs for all they're worth ! 



Jest see the extry fodder 

'Twill take to feed the stock, 

'Fore the chillin' winds is over. 
And the sun begins to knock 



The frost a skally-hootin', 

And to thaw the ground ag'in, 

And to start the grass a growin' 
For the tads to waller in ! 



-95- 



What fun to see 'em tiimblin' 
In the clover in the lot 

Jest like I've often done myself 
When jest a little tot! 



But never mind the weather : 

We'll wait a little longer, 
For the days are growin' that way now, 

And the heat's a gittin' stronger, 



And the trees will soon be buddin' 
And a leavin' green and nice, 

And the landscape be a pictur' 
You can view 'thout nary price. 



The birds will all be warblin',. 
With bull-frogs singin' bass ; 

The apple trees a blossomin'; 
In fact old Nature's face — 



-96- 



Will laugh with life and sunshine, 
While the fruit begins to grow, 

And the cherries blush their reddest, 
And come out in richest glow, 



And the harvest apples ripen 
In the orchard's choicest tree, 

To tempt the searching notice 
Of each truant boy and bee. 



The brooks will go a gurglin' 
Down the hill side to the dale, 

The quail will whistle "Old Bob White' 
From yonder ridered rail. 



The wake-up mutter on the stub, 
The chipmunk chirrup loud. 

The turkey gobbler strut around 
A feelin' mighty proud. 



-97- 



The hens go cacklin' from their nests 
To tell of eggs they've laid, 

The cows come trottin' down the lane 
To seek the maple's shade. 



The air be full of bugs and bees, 

And birds and butterflies, 
The ev'ning sound with tree-toad's trills, 

And sflow with fire-flies. 



How good 'twill seem to set out doors 

In summer nights so still. 
And watch the moon a comin' up 

From 'hind that great big hill ! 



And hear the sheep-bells tinklin' far 

Beyond the pastur-bars, 
Or baby frogs sing out, "knee-deep,' 

In chorus to the stars ! 



-98- 



I git to feelin' good right off 
When thinkin' o' the June, 

When straw-berries turn purty red, 
And summer's all in tune. 



''It's comin' fast, it's comin' soon, 

I feel it in my bones, 
And know it by the thawin' days, 

And the crow's familiar tones. 



L.ofC. 



-99- 



Stony Crick, March ii, 1902. 
Mr. Editor: 

I haint writ to you in quite a spell cause the 
varse season don't come 'round but about once 
a year, and mostly in the spring-time when the 
poultry begins to lay. Eggs has been awful steep 
all winter and wife has kep' me bizzy huntin' old 
hen's nests and crawlin' under the barn and sheds, 
searchin' fer 'em, so I haint had no time to write 
nothin', but sence eggs has dropt I have had time 
to burn hence the varses that I'm sendin' with this 
letter. 

I've been thinkin' 'bout writin' my name 
down Jahez instead of Jabe cause I think it 
sounds more poetical, but my neighbors knowin' 
me by the name of Jabe Smith for nigh onto 40 
years they'll think I'm gettin' mighty stuck up 
since I took to writin' varses. 

The robin havin' kind o' took me off my feet 
'tother day with his same old song newly sung 
after bein' away several months, I sot my feelin's 
down in rimes, and here they are. 

Yours truly, 

Jabe Smith. 



UNCLE JABE TO MR. ROBIN. 

I 'spose, now, Mr. Robin 

You think you got here fust, 

With yer pipin' an' yer singin' 
As if ver throte would bust. 



But the blue-bird beat you this time, 
Fer I heerd him tother day 

A warblin 'awful purty tunes 
Jest like in month o' May. 

His voice was soft and meller 
Like a little ripplin' brook, 

'Most enuf to make a feller 
Hunt his fishin' line and hook. 



And the youngsters, when they heerd him, 

Run like sixty 'crost the lot, 
Then tip-toed careful 'mongst the trees, 

Till they well-nigh reached the spot. 



Then they pinted with their fingers 
Towards a tiny top-most-Hmb, 

When our httle Nelhe hollered 
"It's Bluey! aint it, Jim?" 



A finer sight I never seen, 

Ner picter more complete 
Than them three childern standin' there 

A peekin' up so sweet. 



Guess, Robin^ I was wandrin' some, 

Fergettin' you was here, 
A chasin' arter blue-bird songs, 

And harkning to the queer 



And interestin' pranks and talk, 
Of them three tads out there, 

A-friskin' round to get a sniff 
Of spring-time in the air. 



Glad to see you anyway. 

Want to hear you sing, 
Pipe away with all your might, 

Make the orchards ring. 



Tell the urchins you've come back. 

See 'em jump and clap 
And stare with all the eyes they've got 

To find "the red-breast chap!" 



The crow's a-cawin' in the oak, 
'Taint musical, I know, 

But then it tells us spring is here, 
And soon we'll have to sow 



Our oats and plant our corn, and 

All our garden seeds, 
And catch the bugs on 'tater vines 

While hoein' out the weeds. 



103- 



Wal, Robin, think I like you best 

Of all our early birds, 
You seem to tell of days long gone 

In kind of purty words. 



I can't explain it as I should, 

Fer all the birds is fine. 
But somehow, you can sing the tunes 

That's sort o' in my line. 



About the old-time lilock bush. 
And fruit trees drest in white, 

Er locus' blossoms honey sweet, 
Er clover-bloom — a sight 



That makes a feller dance and sing, 
Throw up his hat and shout. 

Jest like we youngsters used to do 
As soon as school let out. 



-104- 



So trill yer songs with all yer vim, 
From sun up on to night, 

Fer we're a listnin' while we work, 
And while the fishes bite. 



ji^.V^ 




105- 



Stony Crick, Aprile 15, 1902. 
Mr. Eddvter: 

When I sent you them rimes about Air. Robin 
along in the middle of March I was afeerd you 
want agoin' to print 'em, ner I can't begin to tell 
you how tickled I was when I seen 'em all sot 
up nice in the paper you mailed me, and when I 
looked at that pictur' you had made o' me plowin 
with my old team, you better believe I was tick- 
elder than my old dog is when I come home from 
town, and he's so tickled that he nigh amost wig- 
gles hisself in two and barks a lot o' funny dog 
laughs and tears round like he had a fit. 

I tuk your paper and stood in front of our look- 
in' glass that's on the side of our kitchen right 
nigh granther's tall clock, and I'll be hanged if 
I could tell which was tother, and fer the life o' 
me I can't understand how you got my picter so 
correct, fer I haint sot in no fotograf gallery for 
more'n 30 year. 

Hens is settin' considable now and eggs has riz 
a little, and as the fish is running up the crick 
I tuk a notion I'd write some lines on Fishin 
Time, and if you'll print 'em I'll take you out 
fishin' any time you come over to the farm, be- 
sides you shall have your fill of ham and eggs 
and lickin' good maple sirup and plenty of real 
milk warm from the cow. 

Yours truly, 

Jabe Smith. 



FISHIN' TIME. 

Fishin' time has come ag'in, 
Angle worms is crawlin', 

Suckers runnin' up the crick, 
Aprile calves is bawlin'. 

Settin' hens begin to cluck, 
Guinea-fowls to clatter, 

Bull-frogs askin' from the ditch, 
"What on earth's the matter?" 

Turkey gobbler struttin' round. 
Rooster crowin' louder. 

Thinks he's boss of all the yard. 
Daily gittin' prouder. 

Tree-toads tryin' tipsy trills, 
Until they sort o' stutter. 

Cows a croppin' bran' new grass, 
Hurraw for yaller butter. 



107- 



John's a settin' on a log, 
Great long legs a danglin', 

Old straw hat pulled on his head; 
Blamed if he aint anglin' ! 



Got a fish-line made o' twine, 

Bullet fer a sinker. 
Bearded hook and saplin' pole, 

Watchin' like a tinker 



Fer to see his bobber sink. 
Swish ! there goes a shiner — 

Swallowed hook and worm and all, 
But John, he thinks it's finer 



Than them tarnal suckers is, 
Aint so bony nuther, 

Says they bite like all git out, 
Catches 'em fer mother. 



io8- 



Look at that air blackin' box 
Our lad has got his bait in, 

W'y it's labeled "Mason's best,' 
A mighty powerful ratin' : 



Fer on the kiver stands a boot 
A glistenin' like a mirror, 

Dog jest seen his shadder, and 
Is leggin' off in terror. 



The warter gurglin' 'mongst the roots 

Of that old sickamore, 
Has sung the same sweet happy tune 

Fer forty year and more. 



Makes a feller think o' youth, 
Er some old fiddle's hum, 

When a player plinks the strings 
With music in his thumb. 



[09- 



Er bends his head to hear her speak 
In notes that's soft and low, 

While tinklin' chords jest here and there, 
Before he'll let her go. 



The log that John's a settin' on 

Was mate to that air tree. 
With limbs as white and smooth and long, 

But the crick it washed, you see, 



Until it undermined the roots, 
Jest like 'twill do to tother. 

And when it falls I guess I'll cry 
As if I'd lost a brother. 



The tip-up runnin' 'long the bank 
Haint changed sence I was young. 

The kildeer pipes the same shrill notes 
I believe he's alius sung. 



The bass is bitin' jest the same, 

The mullets takin' bait, 
The crick a trav'lin' 'mong the stones 

At about the same old rate. 



The swimmin' hole haint nigh so deep 
As 'twas long years gone by, 

When boys ran all the way from school 
To plunge from spring-board high. 



In bathin' suits of Natur's best 
They went to bottom quick, 

And brot up sand to prove it too. 
The whitest in the crick. 



It seems so funny lookin' back 
Along the road o' time, 

How years has run away so swift 
Since we was in our prime. 



And then to stretch it further back 

To days when we was boys, 
And fiished and swum and played and ckim 

And knowed all sorts o' joys, 



The road is long, }'et time seems short. 
The vision bright and clear : 

So may we see it day by day 
To give us wholesome cheer. 




TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



A Day in June 










49 


A May Day Song 










59> ('o 


Autumn Days 










82 


Autumn Leaves 










73 


A Vision of Youtli . 










50-54 


Chattanooga . 










25-28 


Christmastide . 










88 


Country Gawks and City "Fellers" 










89-91 


Dear Mother Nature 










55, 56 


Fishin' Time 










106-112 


Freaks of the Frost . 










. 84-86 


Good Morning, Mr. Robin . 










57-58 


Ground Hog Day and other Days 










92-99 


Hoosierdom . 










42-45 


Indian Summer 










81 


Indian Weed and Free Silver 










61-63 


May .... 










29, 30 


Moonlight on the Snow 










87 


October 










. 74-80 


Queries 










• 64, 65 


Rejuvenation . 










. 46-48 


Reminiscences 










• 35-41 


Retrospection . 










. 67-69 


Song and Blossom 










16-18 


Sunset 










23, 24 


The Bobolink 










19-22 


The Dandelions 










15 


The Editor's Lament 










31-34 


The Little Red School-house 










3-14 


The Season's Round 










66 


To a River . 










70-72 


Uncle Jabe to Mr. Robin . 










100-105 


Winter's Coming 










83 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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